The ghost of that day
by Yobanashi-deceiver
Summary: England thinks about the independence of his most beloved colony, thinking about everything he lost. Only now does he realize all of his mistakes, and how they led to this. Only now does he realize what he lost and what he has always, deep down, needed the most. USUK. Two-shot.
1. Chapter 1

As usual, Arthur lay awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Unsurprisingly, that night as well, he was not able to sleep. He wondered how long he would continue like that until it affected his health. He could not die, he was well aware of that, but he could still have -temporal as they might be- health issues.

Just as every other night, he lay awake, thinking about how he had changed from the greatest empire on Earth to a mere country; wondering where he had gone wrong, when his empire had started to crumble. It was funny, almost sadly so, how in a single second, your whole world could be smashed to smithereens. He had lost everything he so treasured, and it had been because of him trying to cage it, keep it only to himself.

He rubbed his eyes, waiting for e tears that would not come. He wouldn't cry, he just could not anymore. He wished he could cry himself into sleep; even that would have been better.

But he knew, deep down, that even in his sleep the memories would haunt him. The nightmares would be worse.

So he just lay there idly, letting the memories replay themselves in his mind, burning in he back of his mind.

What he regretted losing the most was _him_.

_"What the hell did I do now?", Alfred complained, glaring at the Brit who had just hit him. He had grown much these past years and was now even taller than his aforementioned ruler._

_"Don't act as though you don't know", Arthur scoffed, his voice full of scorn and disdain. "The tea at Boston"._

_Had England not been so drunk, and had he not been so strict with Alfred for a long time by then, he would have joked about him being so exagerated over tea. But that was not the case, on either thing. It was not about the tea anymore._

_"It's not my fault you're supressing my people too much", Alfred replied, clenching his fists at his sides._

_"Well, learn to control your people unless you want me to do so myself", England stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him._

Only now did he realize how much he had pushed him towards that war. Only when it was too late did he see his mistakes.

Even though the wound was long cured, every time he recalled that war, it started to hurt. His leg had been shot, and he had spent quite some time in a wheelchair because of it.

The memory was so bright and vivid, he could even smell the gunpowder, hear the yelling and screaming of both sides of e war. And the bright red, everywhere, on _everyone_.

And what hurted the most to remember was when he held the gun against Alfred. He had not been able to shoot him. He would not have died. Why, why hadn't he shot him?

And then, he simply broke down and cried, unable to believe he finally was losing it all. The one person who had once looked up to him, now looked down on him.

Sleep never came.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time he ever saw America after the independence was on a World Conference.

Most countries were going, and unluckily so, it was being held at his place. So he had had to arrange the conference room and hotel rooms and everyone -which is, mind you, a great amount of people), and was rushing to prepare everything on time.

So he sat at the table, cup of tea at hand, waiting for his not-so-dear guests to arrive. He absent-mindedly wondered who would come in first.

What he was most focused on, though, was America.

How should he act around him? Was he suppossed to be angry and offended? Sad and sorry, begging for forgiveness? Should he act around him as though nothing had happened? Plainly ignore him?

Was he even expected to act in some way? Not being sure killed him inside, along with the sadness, pain, and tinge of anger that was already dying out. The fact that he was still not sleeping- except for those times he was too tired and fell asleep in the middle of something- didn't help either.

The meeting started and everything went by swiftly. Luckily, he was not expected to take lead at it, and so he could allow himself to let his thoughts wander. More than once, his eyes found the bright blue of Alfred's- no, not "Alfred's", America's eyes, and stared into them, only to look away -too soon for his likes. Whenever the younger nation's eyes met his own, his expression would harden and his ocean eyes would turn to sharp ice, sending another painful knife through Arthur's chest.

He was not paying as much attention as he usually would, until he heard the familiar immature voice that haunted his dreams. He quickly turned to the sound of the stupidly beautiful voice. Before, he had only had quick glimpses of the other blond's eyes, but now he could properly look at him. He was taller- if even remotely possible-, his hair was lighter and messier, he was wearing glasses, and he looked muscular under a brown bomber jacket with a small star on the right- it was ridiculously enormous for him, but he somehow managed to look good on it. He had a stupid smile on his face and was beaming. Arthur couldn't remember the last time he had seen the American smile. Hell, he barely remembered the sound of his laughter or the way his eyes shined when he smiled.

Suddenly, he felt a wave of anger wash over him. He couldn't tell why, but he felt the burning anger grow inside him, meltuing the ice that had been there because of America's coldness, replacing it with something far more bitter and destructive. He suddenly wanted to erase that smile from his face, beat him again and again until he was as miserable as him.

"That is the stupidest idea I have ever had the obligation to hear", Arthur interrumpted. He had not even paid attention to what the younger nation had been saying, but he guessed from what he usually behaved like that he was probably not far from right.

Said nation turned to him and scoffed. "As if you could do any better", he grunted in an offended manner.

"Of course I could. I'm not a brainless idiot who doesn't seem to have anything on his head but burgers", he clenched his fists under the table, glaring at the fuming American. He could feel most eyes fixed on either him or the American, or alternating between both.

"At the very least I'm not a grumpy old man who can't be satisfied by anything", he snapped back.

"At least my brain processes things before I can act".

"At least I didn't lose the war!", as soon as those words left America's mouth, his eyes widened in horror, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, as if he could take them back and trap them there forever.

The anger vanished almost as quickly as it had come, and Arthur felt suddenly tired. He stood up- so quickly, for a second he feared his chair would fall- and walked to the entrance, trying to keep his pace slow. He felt like running out as fast as he could, running and running without ever stopping, to a place so far nobody wouldneven try to look for him. He knew no one would, anyway.

He slammed the door shut behind him, and started running down the hall. He heard murmurs coming from the conference room, but they were too distant and unimportant by now.

He found the exit and ran out, breathing in the cold, humid air. The sky was covered by thick gray clouds, and rain poured down loudly. He continued running through London's streets, not quite paying attention to where he was going. He was soon soaking wet and tired, but he didn't stop. Tears and raindrops mixed before his eyes, distorting the world. It was cold, and he had never minded the cold as much as he did that instant. His clothes got heavier each second with water, and his hair was glued to his face and neck.

Then, as he slowed his pace to catch his breathe, he felt a hand closing tightly around his wrist. His eyes widened and he stiffened, but he didn't turn around, nor did he push the American standing behind him away. He heard him panting, tired- though not nearly as much as him. The bigger hand closing around his strenghtened its hold.

"Arthur, I..", the younger nation spoke, his voice unsteady and full of concern. "I'm sorry", he whispered the last sentence in such a small voice, Arthur almost didn't hear him.

Arthur let the blue-eyed man turn him around and embrace him. For some seconds he merely let his arms lay limp at his sides, until he put them around the blond's back, burrying his face in his chest. Then, surpriseing even himself, he started to cry, letting out everything he hadn't been able to before.

Maybe he didn't need the world in his hands anymore.

Maybe all he needed was _him_.

* * *

**Well, that escalated too quickly. Maybe a bit too quickly, but oh well... And sorry for this one being like twice larger..Anyways, thank you to anyone actually reading and bye!**


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